


The Fellowship of Thedas

by KitLlwynog



Category: Dragon Age, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Female Heir of Andraste with the One Ring, He has bad PR, Lots of Angst, No hobbits, Solas is Morgoth, Thedas and Middle Earth get smashed together., This will be long, may actually qualify as slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:31:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitLlwynog/pseuds/KitLlwynog
Summary: After Enalla, the Heir of Andraste, accidentally finds herself the chosen bearer of the One Ring, she and a motley group of heroes travel across Thedas to destroy it for good.





	1. The Heir and the Wanderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enalla, the Heir of Andraste, wakes in her room in Rivendell to discover that she is now the bearer of the One Ring. The one who found her, an elf callled Solas, is mysterious and mildly irritating.

_The world is changed._ An understatement if there ever was one. Long ago, before Numenor fell and Arlathan was hidden from the world, the wise say that Fen’harel rebelled against the gods. Once the best of them, the brightest and most powerful, he grew jealous of the People's love for his brethren and made war on Valinor. After destroying their greatest treasure, he fled. Ages of conflict passed, but when Gaharel sailed the Sundering Sea and begged for aid, the Creators finally went to war. They tore down Fen’harel’s throne and sealed him away in the world Beyond. But even in his imprisonment, he whispered through dreams to the hearts of men and elves, causing war, strife, and ruin in the empires of ancient days. 

It was his chief lieutenant, Corypheus, who caused the men of Numenor to rebel against the will of the Valar. They sailed an army across the sea, intending to steal the gift of immortality that was the right of elves alone, and the gods sent a great wave to drown them. Numenor, the heart of the kingdom of men, sank beneath the waves forever, and Valinor was removed from Thedas entirely. The Valar turned away from the People, and their prayers went unanswered. If the ships of the Eldar still reached the far shores of Arlathan, none returned to tell the tale.

Yet Corypheus remained, and he persuaded the lords of the three races that he was reformed, that he had been on their side all along, but held under the thumb of his master. Gifts he gave to them, rings of beautiful craftsmanship and wondrous magical power, and with them, they began to rebuild what war had destroyed. But in secret, he took the orb of Fen’harel, a magical foci containing the power and will of a god which some say was crafted with the holy light of Valinor itself, and made a Ring of his own, to enslave and control all the others. One Ring to rule them all. His fortress of Barindur rose in the land of Mordor, and the earth rang with the hammers of his forge as it fashioned the weapons for his savage orc horde. 

He conquered nearly all of Thedas for his dark empire, and none could oppose him. The last hope of the world was an alliance of all free peoples, men, elves and dwarves. They marched on Mordor and blood stained the ground red. The orcs, a terrible and twisted race created by Fen’harel, numbered in the tens of thousands, but by the efforts of heroes of the age, the elves Ameridan and Vivienne, and the humans Calenhad and Drakon, the monsters were driven back. 

But when Corypheus took the field, armed with the Ring and riding his enormous dragon steed, none could stand before him. He slew Drakon in single combat when the King of Gondor stood over the body of his friend Ameridan. All seemed lost.

Until the young warrior Andraste took up the broken shards of her father’s sword, Elgaravise, in despair and fury. She cut the Ring from Corypheus’s hand, and his power, his dragon, even his body, vanished. Barindur was swallowed by the earth. The war was won, though the loss of life was almost immeasurable. Andraste kept the Ring, in memory of her father. But when she was ambushed by orcs on her way back to her father's kingdom, it passed out of all knowledge. 

For two and a half thousand years, peace reigned. But darkness is creeping back into the world. There are whispers of a power that rises in the East. And the One Ring has been found.

*******************

Her head hurt, the bright sunlight assaulting her eyes. She wanted to throw her hand over her face but was somehow too weak to lift her arm. “Haminas, lethallan,” said a voice, masculine and soothing, with a lilting accent that was somehow both familiar and slightly strange. “I will close the curtains.” Blessed darkness engulfed her, and she slept again.

When she next awoke, the light was not so painful. She blinked a few times to clear the fog from her vision. It was her bedroom in Imladris, that near-mythical land which the common man called Rivendell. Before her was a familiar face, lined with years of care, and now smiling. “Rest easy, child. Do you remember anything? Your name perhaps?”

This struck her as very funny. “But Wynne, you know me. You practically raised me.”

The older woman’s smile was strained. “Humor me, if you will. What is the name your mother gave you?” Ah. A trick question. It was an answer only she, and not someone pretending to be her, would know.

“Enansal’las,” she said. “My mother called me that as she died birthing me. But everyone calls me Enalla."

“Does that satisfy you?” Wynne inquired sharply. Enalla hadn't noticed the other person in the room, and now he stepped into the light. He was an elf, like most of the people of Imladris, but his head was shaved bald, which was not at all usual, and it made the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the points of his ears all the more prominent. His skin was fair, but faintly freckled, and his eyes were blue-violet, like a periwinkle flower. She knew she'd never met him before because he was striking enough that she would've remembered. 

“It is all the reassurance I can expect, considering,” he said, his expression intense. Enalla recognized his voice as the one who had spoken to her before. He had been kind, then, but now his tone was clipped and sharp. 

“Now, Enalla,” Wynne said, “do you remember anything else? Last I heard you were planning to travel to Bree for information gathering.”

She thought back, through a haze of confusion. She’d been on the road, not alone… “What happened to the others?”

“Fergus and Elissa returned several days ago. With Roheryn, in case you were wondering.”

“Thank the gods,” Enalla said, letting out a breath. She'd never forgive herself if something happened to her hound. Or her friends, but they were both seasoned warriors and could take care of themselves. Roheryn, however, she had raised from a pup, and though he might be a wardog, he also may as well have been her child. 

“If we could return to the matter at hand?” the bald elf said. His accent was puzzling. She’d met elves from Lorien, from Mithlond, and Mirkwood, even the strange wild elves of the northern wastes, but his speech was like unto none of them. 

Enalla frowned. “We were ambushed by orcs on the road. I'm sure the others told you as much.”

“They did,” Wynne said slowly, her eyes flicking to the male elf.

“But I found you wandering the forest on the other side of the Brunien, and none of that explains this,” he said, lifting her left hand into her field of view. There was a ring on her finger, a simple gold band set with a central stone, right where she might've worn a wedding ring, but she wasn’t even betrothed. And this was unlike any ring she'd seen before. There were words engraved upon the band in a language she didn't recognize, and the stone glowed with vibrant green light.

“Where did that come from?” she said, leaning over to peer at it more closely. When she tried to slip it off her finger, she found it wouldn't budge.

“You will not be able to remove it,” the male elf said, his voice tight. “It has _chosen_ you. As to where it came from, I hoped you would be able to tell us.”

Enalla strained to guide her thoughts backward, and finally, a few snatches of imagery came into focus through the ache between her eyes. “I ran, intending to lead some of the orcs away. To split the force,” she said, screwing up her brow in concentration. “I fell into the river…” _Gray light and foam, the current pulling her down, the sound of water rushing, lungs burning. A light bursts before her eyes…._ She shook her head. “That’s all I can remember,” she said, looking down at the ring again. “What do you mean, it chose me? How does a ring choose a wearer?”

“Not just a ring. The Ring,” he said, his eyes wide with something like fear. “It has been lost since the time of Andraste, when she too was ambushed on the road. Perhaps she fled to the river and lost it as she swam. Or she may have tossed it into the water to hide it. Whatever the case, the One Ring has now come to you, the last of her line.”

Enalla stared down at the ring on her finger. The Ring. It didn’t look like an artifact of ultimate power, but when she looked back up, raising her eyebrows disbelievingly, Wynne’s face was grave. “It is as he says. There can be no mistake.”

Enalla felt her stomach roil with anxious nausea. All her life, she’d been raised within the shadow of her ancestors, for the great destiny that awaited her, but this went way beyond the legacy of a long abandoned throne. “What am I supposed to do now? I don’t want this.”

“Whether you desire it or not, the Ring has passed to you, and therefore, you must wield it, or perish when Corypheus pries it from your body,” the bald elf said coldly. 

“Corypheus is dead,” she said, scowling up at him. “And who are you? I have never seen you before, and now you are in my bedroom, schooling me about my business as if I was still a girl with pigtails in my hair.”

He winced and drew himself up. Even for an elf, he was tall, and not slightly built, as many of the lately born Elvhen, but broad-shouldered and lean. “I meant no offense. My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am a wanderer and a scholar.”

“Solas is a wizard,” Wynne offered, her eyes crinkling slightly. “He likes for people to underestimate him, but it will do none of us any good to keep secrets.”

“Some call me that,” he said, frowning slightly. “But it is not what I call myself. I found you near to the road, delirious with fever, and brought you here for healing. If I seem to speak sharply, it is because of the news I bear. I was traveling to Imladris on my own to give a warning. Corypheus is not dead. In Mordor, the forge hammers ring louder than ever, and the fortress of Barindur rises once more. The fact that I found you bearing his Ring now seems all too convenient, but whether it is an omen of victory or disaster, I could not say.”

Enalla felt a shiver travel up her spine. Corypheus was a creature of legend and nightmare. To be told that he was alive was like being transported back to childhood and finding that the monster under her bed had slithered out and declared his express intention of eating her. “Fate conspires on our behalf in one way, at least,” Wynne said. “Solas is not the only unusual visitor to arrive in Imladris these past few weeks. The Ring came to you, Enalla, but it concerns all the people of Thedas. We will hold a council in three days’ time to consider what must be done.” 

*********************

The day of the Council came too slowly. Three days of enforced idleness would have worn on Enalla at any time, but with the threat of Corypheus hanging over her head and the weight of the Ring on her finger, each hour dragged on her heart like the sound of nails on a slate. She found refuge in one of the more quiet secluded libraries, but her eyes travelled over the words on the page without seeing them.

“You are no elf,” said a gruff male voice to her right. Enalla looked up from her book to find an unfamiliar man, a warrior past his prime with dark hair, shining plate, and a shrew expression..

“Humans have always been welcome here, if they come in good will,” she replied, briefly checking to make sure the Ring was concealed by her cloak. “I am here for the Council, but I have stayed in Imladris many times before,” she said, all of the truth she was willing to offer a stranger.

“I have also been invited to the Council, though I arrived more by accident than on purpose,” the man said, but he did not offer further introduction, as he was distracted by the statue of Andraste that dominated the room. Enalla was glad for the reprieve, though she had complex feelings regarding the artifact on display. “Are these truly the shards of Elgaravise? The blade that cut the Ring from Corypheus’s hand?” He held up the largest piece, the hilt with a foot of broken blade still attached, and she could almost see the dreams of glory and victory shining from his eyes. She looked away.

“It is a pity the line of Andraste died out,” he said, setting the sword back on its pedestal. Crooked, much to Enalla’s annoyance. “In these dark days, Thedas could use a hero of her stature. Though perhaps, considering her fate, it would be better for new blood to rise to prominence,” he said with a wry smile. She felt like telling him that if he wanted to be the one on whom the fate of the world rested, he was welcome to it, but she did not. “I will leave you to your reading, and hope to see you at the Council, friend.” Enalla nodded, not trusting herself to speak, but when his footsteps had faded away, she rose and moved to the sword, straightening it and the velvet cloth on which it lay.

“The fate of your famous ancestor troubles you,” said a voice she had not expected to hear. Solas entered the room, his footfalls nearly silent, as, like many elves, he did not wear shoes. Enalla had never understood why this was, or how they managed it, many going even into battle unshod. She’d been told that it was an ancient magical gift, to be accepted rather than understood. It ranked how often this seemed to be the case.

“How long have you been eavesdropping?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. Not that it had been a particularly private conversation, but there was something about the self-proclaimed scholar that she found disconcerting and fascinating all at once. The fact that he saw her fears so easily was bothersome.

“I did not intend to intrude. I was merely looking for a quiet place to think. Lady Fiona pointed me to this library. Apparently the murals in this room are particularly breathtaking.” That was true. Some talented elf, in ages past, had painted the history of Thedas on the walls in stunning detail, right up to the moment when Andraste defeated Corypheus. Enalla had spent many hours staring at the images, engraving them upon her memory.

“I apologize for my sharp tone,” she said with a sigh. “Recent events have set me on edge. This is one of my favorite places, when I feel like being alone.” She looked back at the broken sword and sighed. “They say that the Ring corrupted Andraste. That she ought to have destroyed it, but the lure of power turned her aside, as it does so easily to mortal hearts. I wonder if I am doomed to the same fate.”

“You are Andraste’s heir, but you are not bound by her mistakes,” he said gently. “We Eldar are often quick to judge mortals, but it is only to soothe our own consciences. The history of the youth of the world is littered with examples of my people destroying out of arrogance. Of wars fought over a long-forgotten insult. Those tales have faded from the minds of the living, even while some of those who lived them still walk the earth.” He was smiling, as if they were sharing a joke, but she thought she saw something else in his eyes, some old wound that still troubled him. How old was he, this wizard wanderer, that he knew so much, and yet she’d never heard of him?

“I don't understand why the Ring would choose me. Is it because of my blood? The tales say that the Ring has a will, that it only truly serves its master. I suppose it must think I can be easily controlled.”

“That is not necessarily true. There are many forces in this world, lethallan, besides the will of evil. The Ring itself does not have one maker but two. With its loyalty so divided, it may not be as difficult as you imagine to master.”

Enalla raised her eyebrows. “Surely, the will of Fen’harel, if it is not aligned with Corypheus, would be even more terrifying.”

“Perhaps,” Solas said, and once again his eyes were shadowed. “But it has been ten thousand years since he walked among the People. Can any of us truly know what he intends?” He shrugged. “I only meant to suggest that we should not lose hope before we have even begun. I am no Seer, but I do not believe your fate is necessarily dire.” His smile was gentle but more sad than joyful. 

It made her felt guilty for all the times she'd been cross with him. “Thank you, Solas,” she said. “I meant to thank you, before, for rescuing me.”

“There is no need,” he said. “Even if I were inclined to leave an injured person on the ground when they clearly required aid, I would have been foolish indeed to leave the Ring lying out in the open.” Though it was a bleak and truthful statement on the face of it, Enalla laughed, as she knew she was meant to. Solas’s answering chuckle ended in a soft snort. It was frankly both charming and adorable to a distressing degree. She left the library, claiming a forgotten errand, but his words returned to her thoughts often as the Council drew near. 

Was the Ring evil in itself, or simply wielded by evil people? Could its power be mastered? What could anyone truly know about the motivations of a god?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translations
> 
> Haminas, lethallan: Be at peace, friend  
> Elgaravise: Spirit Fire


	2. Many Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of Imladris is convened to decide what to do with the Ring.

On the day of the Council, Enalla was the first one there, mostly because she had been too anxious to wait. The sunshine in Imladris seemed to wrap everything in golden light. Though it was October, summer lingered here. Enalla wiggled her fingers inside the glove hiding her left hand from view. The Ring felt more uncomfortable today, rubbing her skin as if it was trying to call attention to itself. As other people started to file into the room, she sat up in her chair, making an effort not to catch anyone's eye. She felt it important that she not draw attention to herself until it was absolutely necessary.

Some of the attendees were known to her. Of course, she knew the three Loremasters who governed Imladris. Orsino, Fiona, and Wynne. They had served as her role models, guides, and family since her birth. Wynne smiled at Enalla as she took her seat, but the other two wore troubled expressions. The man she had encountered in the library came in, and she had a brief thrill of discomfort thinking he might actually sit next to her. Luckily, he was busy arguing with two other people, a man and a woman, both from the south, judging by the darkness of their hair and skin, and did not notice her. Meanwhile, an old friend had marked her presence, and he, though a naturally grim sort of person, almost smiled as he approached her chair.

“Abelas. I had no idea you would be here,” she said, rising to briefly embrace the Prince of Mirkwood. He looked her up and down with an expression of concern.

“I came on an errand from my father, seeking advice from the Loremasters about the darkness that has infected our lands. I’ve been told this Council will address these issues, in part. But what of you? I sense some strange magic about you, something I’ve never felt before.”

Enalla grimaced in reply. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He narrowed his eyes, but nodded and took a seat next to her. Several new faces had entered while they spoke, a dwarf, strangely beardless and carrying a crossbow, of all things, who was talking animatedly with a female elf and a… creature that Enalla could not immediately identify. He… she thought it was a he… was large, gray-skinned, and had, among other alarming things, a rather large pair of horns adorning his skull. He looked a bit like a troll, but obviously was not one, judging just by the intellectual content of their conversation. Also, she knew he was not nearly big enough despite the fact that he was more than a head taller than everyone present and barely fit in the chair when he sat down. 

Solas entered last, offering Enalla a small smile as he took the seat on her other side. She found herself slightly reassured by his presence. He was the one who seemed to know the most about what was happening, and she was glad it would not fall completely on her shoulders to explain her possession of the Ring. Whatever he might think about its nature, she knew the stories that most people heard of the One Ring painted it as a wholly evil object. It would take more than one voice to convince them that it wasn't necessarily the case.

“Now that we are all present,” Fiona said, standing and extending her hands in a gesture of welcome. “I will make introductions, so that we are all known to each other.” She gestured first to the warrior that Enalla had met before. “Loghain mac Tyr is a warrior of Rohan, former marshall of the Westmarches.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Enalla could not help but wonder what might have cost him his post. She had been to Rohan before, many years ago, and knew the Rohirrim valued honor and bravery in their marshals especially. 

However, she had little time to speculate as Fiona next turned to the two southerners. The man, Dorian, was, astoundingly, the son of the Steward of Gondor, and the woman, Cassandra, was one of the Guards of the Fountain who had come along to protect him. They seemed amiable enough, even though Cassandra's face was currently stuck in a permanent scowl, but there was no telling how they would feel about the Heir of Andraste. The dwarf was an exile from the Iron Mountains, a self-proclaimed storyteller named Varric who was looking for his missing brother. The elf, who was called Sera, and the giant man, who was apparently a defector from Harad, went by the name of Iron Bull. The Iron Bull. They were members of a mercenary unit called the Bull’s Chargers, the rest of whom were staying in Bree at the moment. Then of course, there was Abelas, Solas, and herself. 

Enalla felt a moment of unease. If Fiona introduced her as the Heir of Andraste, it could create friction with the Southerners. “This is Enalla, the Captain of the Dunedain,” she said, to Enalla’s relief. “Together, we represent a good portion of the free peoples of Thedas, and so it comes to us to decide how proceed with the threat of Mordor looming on the horizon.”

“Mordor?” Logan said, disbelieving. “Was not that threat dealt with long ago? Surely we should be focusing on more immediate dangers.”

Orsino spoke up now, his arms crossed over his chest. “All of the more immediate dangers you speak of are either exacerbated by or stem from the greater source. Listen to what the others have to say before voicing your doubt. I believe both Abelas and Dorian have information on this matter.”

The elven prince stood first. “My father wishes to report that our realm grows more dangerous by the day. Foul creatures have moved into the forest, and the water flowing from the east is poisoning the land, just as it did in the years before the defeat of Corypheus. Orcs have been spotted prowling our southern borders.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Interesting circumstantial evidence to be sure. But in Gondor, we have seen the smoke rising from Orodruin with our own eyes. If Corypheus has not resurrected himself, there is now a successor to his throne.”

“Corypheus arisen?” Loghain said, his eyes wide with alarm. “If what you say is true, we must do whatever we can to stop him.”

“Andrastes’s flaming knickers,” Varric muttered under his breath. “When I said I wanted a good story, I wasn't looking for anything quite this terrifying.”

“The news is indeed dire. Not only is Corypheus actively preparing to wage another war,” Solas said, “But Flemeth, who we might have once counted as an ally, has turned against us.”

“Solas, you never spoke of this before,” Wynne said in a scolding tone. The elf bowed his head, and Enalla suppressed a laugh. Even wizards, it seemed, were not immune to a mother’s chastisement. 

“My apologies. I was not hiding this fact for nefarious purposes, but I was distracted by other matters, and the truth is that I consider it a rather personal betrayal. She and I are old friends, and when I discovered that Corypheus had awakened, it is to her that I first went for help. To my surprise, I suddenly found myself imprisoned on the roof of Orthanc. As we speak, she is burning the borders of the Entwood in order to equip the army of orcs that she bred underneath Isenguard. It was more by luck than skill that I managed to escape at all.” His expression was pained, and Enalla felt the strange desire to comfort him.

“That puts Gondor in an even more difficult position,” Dorian said, frowning. “With an enemy in the east and the north, we’ll be lucky if we aren't fighting a battle on two fronts. Rohan will certainly be reluctant to aid us with Flemeth on their doorstep.”

“I sincerely doubt Rohan will aid you at all, in the state it’s in,” Loghain said sourly. “Flemeth has been working her evil sorcery on King Cailan for months. I was exiled from my own home when I dared oppose the orders that her treacherous daughter Morrigan foisted on us.” Enalla did not feel any better having the question of Loghain’s history settled. It was dire tidings, and not even the worst to come.

“All of this only confirms the truth,” Solas said, his voice grim. “Corypheus is arisen and war is coming. Without his Ring, he is at a fraction of his former strength, but that cannot last forever. The One Ring has been found,” he said, turning to Enalla. She swallowed and removed her glove. The bright green light shone out across the room, and everyone present gasped before falling silent. “The Ring has chosen a new bearer, whether by chance or by Fate. With it, we must decide how to answer the threat of Corypheus.”

It seemed to Enalla that a dark cloud fell over the council as everyone digested the news. Loghain was the first to recover, and he stood, his expression almost excited. “Surely it must be a gift from the the Maker himself that it’s come to us now. This could be our chance to be rid of Corypheus once and for all.”

Enalla heard Solas make a quiet sound, either amusement or dissent, she wasn’t sure, but Dorian spoke again. “Don’t be stupid. Everyone knows that the One Ring answers to Corypheus whether it is on his hand or not. Any attempt to wield it against him would likely hasten our destruction.”

“I agree with Dorian,” Cassandra said, “But we cannot simply do nothing. Even if we attempted to hide the Ring, I have no doubt Corypheus would find it eventually.”

“Indeed,” Orsino said. “Already we have seen signs of his interest. The Ring cannot stay in Imladris. That is why we have called you all together.”

“Okay, if the Ring can’t be used, and it can’t be hidden, why don’t we just destroy it?” Varric said. 

“Sounds good to me,” The Iron Bull agreed. “I’ve even got a hammer.” There were some murmurs of assent. Enalla fought the urge to jerk her hand back under her cloak.

Solas shook his head. “The Ring cannot be destroyed so easily. Even the lesser magic rings once wielded by the elders of each race could only be damaged by dragon fire, and there are not now any surviving dragons near or powerful enough to aid us. If any remain at all. The One Ring was forged in the fire of Orodruin. I suspect it can only be unmade in the same location.”

“So like, what, you want us to stroll on over to Mordor and just chuck it in, then?” Sera said, punctuating her obvious disbelief with a snorting laugh.

“I was not suggesting…” Solas started to say, but Loghain interrupted him. Enalla could not help but dislike the man, though she knew he meant well.

“Traveling to Mordor would be madness. It would be delivering the thing Corypheus most wants directly into his hands. We should be using it against him,” Loghain exclaimed.

“Clearly you weren’t listening to me when I said that was a bad idea,” Dorian said, getting to his feet to stand toe to toe with the larger warrior.

“You would have us throw away our greatest weapon,” Loghain said, perhaps a bit too loudly. “Gondor always looks to their own glory first.” Cassandra jumped up behind Dorian, and suddenly it seemed the whole room was embroiled in an argument. Even Solas had joined in, though he didn’t appear to agree with either faction. Enalla felt irritation rising up her throat like bile. She stood and held the ring in the air. It flared, filling the council chamber with green light, making the shadows draw back against the walls. The room fell silent.

“You’re all acting like children,” she said, scowling at the others. In the corner, Wynne put a hand over her mouth to stifle laughter. “I notice no one here has asked for my opinion, though I am the one to which the Ring has decided to attach itself.”

Solas turned back, taking a step in her direction. “Of course, lethallan, my apologies. What do you want to do?” Truthfully, she had only wanted them to stop arguing, but now she was being put on the spot. She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted. By Loghain of course.

“She only found the Ring by chance. What would a ranger know of such weighty matters?” he said with a disdainful sneer. Her fists curled in anger, but this time Abelas stepped up in her defense.

“She is no mere ranger. Enalla is the last of the line of Andraste, and heir to the throne of Gondor. She has just as much right to decide as any of us. Certainly more than a disgraced Marshall of the Rohirrim,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Enalla winced, and shook her head at her friend, who returned her gaze with an arched eyebrow. Loghain’s face was turning crimson, but his impending explosion was averted when Dorian laughed loudly. “A Queen of Gondor? Won’t that be a fly in my father’s porridge? If I had a glass of wine, I’d toast to you, my lady. Everyone in the South believes the line died out years ago.”

“We have extensive genealogical records on hand, should you require proof of her lineage,” Fiona said. “But that does not pertain to the matter at hand. Enalla, do you have a suggestion as to how we might proceed?”

She let out a slow breath before speaking. “Solas knows the most about this matter, and he believes that I can learn to wield the Ring. I am not so sure, but I am willing to try. Either way, we must leave Imladris, and if we do not leave soon, all the passes through the mountains will be snowed in. From here, the road to Mordor and the road to Gondor are much the same for many weeks of travel. My belief is that we should leave as soon as we can, and the final decision can be made later. If I an able to master this power, I can learn just as well on the way.”

There was another beat of silence, and then Solas spoke again. “That is… an excellent suggestion.” She smiled at him, more out of relief than anything else. Perhaps she imagined the strange expression that crossed his face for just a moment before it disappeared. He moved to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I will aid you with this task in any way I am able.”

“As will I,” Dorian said, approaching her with a smile, and holding out his hand. “And not just because it will give my father an apoplexy, but because I believe it is the right thing to do.” She did not hesitate to grip his forearm in greeting.

“You have my sword,” Cassandra said, bowing her head.

“And you have my bow. As ever, I stand ready to guard your back,” Abelas said gravely as he joined the group.

“If this is indeed the will of the Council, then I can do nothing less than aid you,” Loghain said, his expression resigned. 

“Far be it for me to pass on a story like this,” Varric said, shouldering his crossbow with a wry smile.

“Hell, I guess we’d better sign on too. If you guys are planning fighting Corypheus, there’s now way I’m gonna miss out,” the Iron Bull said, elbowing Sera. She rubbed her ribs but grinned.

“Yeah. I’ve got a few arrows for him, that’s for sure,” she agreed.

Orsino rose to his feet with something approaching a smile on his face. “Nine companions. It is a magically powerful number. An interesting fellowship, representing all the peoples of Thedas. It is well.” He turned to the other two Loremasters, and both Fiona and Wynne nodded in assent. “You should prepare to leave within the fortnight. As Enalla said, the longer you delay, the more likely you will be to find foul weather. We will give you whatever supplies we can spare.”

***************************

There were hours more of discussion and debate, of course, but the final decision remained that the nine companions would follow Enalla’s plan. They would travel across the Wildlands to the passes of the Misty Mountains, and once across, they would decide what course to take. It was possible the party would split at that point, but it was weeks in the future.

For now, there were supplies to gather and messages to send, and for Enalla, another farewell to her childhood home. Late one evening, she took Roheryn down to one of her favorite places, a bridge below a waterfall in quiet area of Imladris. She sat on the stone arch, dangling her feet into the stream below, while Roheryn splashed in the water, occasionally bringing her sticks to throw. With the sound of the stream muffling the noises of the crowd in the distant house and the moonlight lending everything a silver glow, for a moment, she could almost forget about the Ring and the fate of the world resting on her shoulders. She sighed and leaned back, letting the warm evening wind ruffle her hair. 

Roheryn looked up suddenly, letting out a bark, not threatening, but simply an announcement that another person was present. She looked up to see Solas standing at the end of the bridge. “I apologize for disturbing you, lethallan. I came out here for some peace and quiet. Sera has been teaching everyone Dunlendish drinking songs for the past hour and I fear I cannot take any more.”

Enalla laughed. “It's all right, Solas. I've just been visiting some of my favorite places before we head out. Who know when I’ll be able to come back?”

He sat down next to her, his long legs almost reaching the ground below. “Master Orsino told me you grew up here. An enviable upbringing.”

She smiled, remembering. “It was, for the most part. Even with both my parents dead, I never lacked for love or knowledge, of course. It was only when I became an adult and learned my true heritage that life became difficult, but Imladris has always been a refuge for me.”

Solas nodded. “It's been many years since I had anywhere I could consider a home, but I remember the peace that it brings. Even on a long journey, having something to return to makes everything worthwhile.”

Enalla debated asking him for several seconds before deciding that he was unlikely to volunteer information on his own. She wanted to get to know all of her companions, for practical reasons, and because she was a friendly sort of person, but she couldn't deny that he especially aroused her curiosity. “So what happened to your home? If you don't mind me asking.”

“It's a long, sad story,” he answered, the shadows throwing the melancholy of his face in stark relief. “Not appropriate for such a pleasant night. Suffice it to say that I had a disagreement with my family, and so, I am no longer welcome.”

“I'm sorry, Solas,” she said, laying her hand briefly on his shoulder. He looked over at her with an expression of surprise.

“Thank you, lethallan, for the sentiment. It has been so long that I'm now rarely troubled by it. We have a difficult journey ahead of us, and your road may be the hardest of all. I am glad you, at least, have a home to go back to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two, finally! Also, I made a spotify playlist for this: spotify:user:mizukitsune-us:playlist:0esqdJo61gjMEEgcLTgT25


	3. Hope Reborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship prepares to leave. Elgaravise is reforged.

A week before they were to leave, Enalla went to visit her parents. The graveyard was in one of the most remote and inaccessible parts of the valley. Even now, the elvhen did not like to be reminded of their mortality. Every generation, lifespans were shorter. Many young elves did not even live long enough to seek the Havens, their years hardly more than that of a human. Orsino himself had a daughter in this graveyard, and his wife took a ship to Valinor long ago.

No one came to visit or tend the graves, and most were marked only with an elegant stone monolith labeled with a name and date. Enalla’s parents had small statuettes of marble atop their resting place, courtesy of Wynne, but they were covered with ivy. Enalla pulled the leaves away, glad to have something to occupy her hands while her mind was busy. What would her parents think, seeing their daughter bearing the One Ring? Would they accept it as destiny or call it a curse?

“I thought I might find you here,” said the familiar voice of Orsino. The Loremaster stood with his hand on one of the headstones. He sighed as his eyes flicked over the name. “I wish I could find the same comfort in these monuments that humans seem to. I know that my daughter’s spirit lies in the Halls of the Dead in Valinor, but mortals know not where their souls go once they depart the body. Perhaps that is why your people find solace in addressing the bones of the deceased.”

“Maybe. But humans have more experience with death. It could just be that we’ve had more time to develop a tradition,” Enalla replied. “But I doubt you came all the way here to have a philosophical debate.”

“No,” Orsino said with a small smile. “There is something important I wish to discuss with you. This journey you face will no doubt be the most difficult and dangerous that you have ever undertaken. Your bloodline has been a burden to you thus far, lethallan, but I think it is time you received your true inheritance.”

“I don't understand,” Enalla said, raising her eyebrows. As far as she knew, aside from the ring of Shartan which she’d received when she came of age, there was nothing left to her line but the name.

“The skill of the elvhen can reforge the blade of Andraste, but only you have the power to wield it.” Enalla gaped. Of course, a broken sword could be repaired, but there was a reason Elgaravise had remained as shards, enshrined for anyone to view. It was more than a sword; it was a symbol that the greatest evil could be defeated, even when all seemed lost.

“I… Are you certain that's a good idea? My own sword is perfectly serviceable.” Orsino laughed, not unkindly.

“I am sure it is. But Elgaravise was made for the war against Corypheus, and has already defeated him once. It is a powerful weapon, but when we are done, nothing will be able to stand against it. You will have need of it, I fear, in days to come.”

The thought chilled her, all the more because she knew it to be true. “Far be it for me to refuse such a gift. I only hope I will be worthy of it.”

“Of that I have no doubts. Now come, lethallan,” he said, beckoning her with an upraised arm. “If you have bid farewell to your mother and father, we should return to the house. Solas wishes to speak to you before we begin.”

“Solas? I didn't realize he was involved,” she said. Not that she objected, as in their short acquaintance she had come to trust his knowledge, and she also found his quiet presence reassuring. But she’d had no idea he was interested in weapons.

“Fiona, Wynne, and I will aid him with our magic, but he will be the one to do the actual forging. It has been long since he has walked among the elvhen of these lands, but Solas is a master artificer. However, it is your sword, Enalla, if you would rather…”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I'll be interested to watch him work.”

*******************

When Orsino had first asked him to be the one to remake Elgaravise, Solas had demurred. That was a job for someone else, someone whose creations were not tainted with failure and loss. And besides, he felt that using those skills openly left him vulnerable. Perhaps one day he would reveal his true identity, but until Corypheus was defeated, it was better for him to maintain a low profile.

But Fiona had no intention of allowing him to refuse. “You claim to want redemption, Solas. What better start could there be than to make the blade for the Heir of Andraste? There is little doubt that Enalla will have to face Corypheus in the end. Your help could be the very thing that allows her to prevail,” she said with a too-sweet smile.

The Loremaster was cunning, striking his guilt right where it lived while at the same time flattering his ego. Even knowing he was being manipulated, Solas felt unable to refuse. But he wasn't going to leap into the forging of a magical blade without knowing more about the wielder. He knew a bit about Enalla as a person, which had served to allay his fears about a human carrying the One Ring. The Heir of Andraste was not reckless or hungry for glory. She had a good heart and a curious mind. He could have hardly done better in finding a bearer himself, and he certainly could have done worse. But he knew next to nothing about her as a warrior.

So now they were in the practice ring, and Enalla was preparing to spar with Cassandra, the warrior of Minas Tirith. A few of the other Dunedain watched from the sidelines; Solas believed they were still recovering from injuries sustained during the ambush Enalla herself had barely escaped. They shouted out taunts and encouragement as the two women readied themselves.

“You sure you're up for this? After three days in bed and a week with your rump in a chair, you might be a little rusty,” called a brawny man with ginger hair.

“Come over here and say that, Fergus,” Enalla replied, grinning. “I have no problem knocking you on your arse.” Solas allowed himself a small smile. She was a spirited woman; she would have to be to have led the rangers of the north as ably as she had for the past fifty years, but she was not merely a military commander. Enalla was also learned, thoughtful, and perceptive, wise despite her relative youth. He would have thought her unique among humans, but he was willing to admit that he perhaps had not considered any human worth his attention until now. It was a puzzle whose pieces he was not yet ready to put together.

The two women stood across from each other, shaking hands. “Should we set the rules beforehand, my Lady?” Cassandra asked. Solas supposed she might be feeling a bit nervous fighting the actual Heir of Andraste. 

“This is just for exhibition,” Enalla answered with a smile, “So I assume we’ll be trying our best not to injure each other even though we’re using real steel. To first blood, or surrender, does that sound reasonable? And please don't call me lady. Enalla will do.”

“Of course, my- Enalla,” Cassandra said, her cheeks coloring. 

“Solas, will you referee?” Enalla asked, turning her dancing gray eyes upon him. Andraste had such eyes, he remembered, but they had been colder, more stern. He nodded.

“Ready yourselves.” The two women sank into defensive stances, Cassandra bringing up her shield. Enalla fought with a longsword in one hand and a dagger in the other, a style Solas had not seen except among the Sindar until now. “Three… two… one… begin.”

They circled each other for a few tense moments before Enalla exploded into action, a whirling tempest of blades. Cassandra reacted purely defensively at first, perhaps caught off guard by her foe’s speed and unusual style, and, Solas thought, a bit wary of striking what must seem to her an almost sacred being. But Enalla hit her across the ribs with the larger blade, making her grunt with pain, and that seemed to shake her out of her reluctance. Solas watched them battle in earnest with his chin resting in one hand. Though their styles were completely different, both women were equally skilled, but he found he preferred to watch Enalla. She fought like the elvhen in the days of old, with grace and subtlety, and already his mind was awhirl with runes and enchantments to enhance her natural abilities.

“Nothing like watching two powerful women go at it, huh Chuckles?” said a voice intruding on his thoughts. Solas blinked in surprise.

“Excuse me?” he said, looking over at the beardless dwarf, Varric, from the corner of his eye. For some reason, he insisted on wearing a vest with no shirt underneath, exposing his absurd amount of chest hair for the whole world to see.

“You're watching the fight with rapt attention. I assumed you were interested for… aesthetic reasons,” Varric answered with a sardonic grin.

“No,” Solas said, perhaps a little too quickly. “Not that I don't find her…” He cleared his throat, feeling his ears getting hot. “I mean, I am only watching the match to learn Enalla’s fighting style, not for any… indecent purpose.”

“There's nothing indecent about appreciating a beautiful woman, Chuckles.” Varric said, but his eyes were practically glowing with satisfaction. 

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” Solas asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Chuckles? Well, whenever you find something amusing, which is surprisingly often considering your dour expression, you laugh quietly to yourself. I like to give people nicknames, helps to define their characters in my mind.”

“And you think chuckling defines my character?” Solas said, his eyebrow arched in disbelief. Varric was obviously not a good judge of others’ motivations, which was a comforting thought. Just then, Cassandra twisted her sword in a parry that sent Enalla’s dagger flying through the air. Solas reached up and caught it before it hit him in the face.

“Damn. I guess they weren't kidding when they said elves had quick reflexes,” Varric remarked, but Solas wasn't really paying attention. For many people, the loss of the secondary weapon would signal a significant disadvantage, but this was not the cast for Enalla. She switched to wielding her sword with two hands, her style now direct and powerful, and Cassandra was not prepared for such a drastic change. She backpedaled, barely fending off the shattering blows with her shield, and then she tripped and fell on her backside. 

“I yield, I yield!” she exclaimed, somewhere between impressed and exasperated. Enalla grinned and held out her hand, pulling the other woman back to her feet. 

“That was well fought,” she said. “I think you might have been taking it a little easy on me.”

Cassandra snorted. “Perhaps at first. But you took me off guard after you lost your dagger. The win was fairly earned. I’d be glad to spar with you again.”

“Any time,” Enalla agreed. “Where did my dagger go, anyway?” she asked, looking around the circle with pursed lips.

“I have it here,” Solas said, holding it out. Now that he wasn't entranced by the fighting, he could admire the craftsmanship. It was ancient blade, forged at Fornost in the glory days of the North Kingdom. Though it could not truly compare to an Elvhen smith, it was the closest a human might ever hope to come. “I was nearly collateral damage.”

She flashed him a wide grin, still flush with the thrill of victory, and he felt his heart, unexpectedly, beat faster in response “Sorry about that,” she said, taking the dagger back and slipping it into the sheath at her hip. “Did you see enough?”

He swallowed. It felt like a loaded question, even though he was sure that was not what she had intended. “I believe so. I will need a day or so to think about it, but I believe I will be ready to begin the forging the day after tomorrow. Even with the aid of magic, it will take several days.”

“Thank you for doing this, Solas,” she said, meeting his eyes with a sincerity he found mesmerizing. “I can't tell you how much it means to me, personally, not to mention what it will mean to everyone that opposes Corypheus, to see the blade wielded again.”

“I am happy to use my skills to aid you in whatever way I can, lethallan,” he said, and to his surprise, he meant it.

********************

Enalla had seen ordinary blacksmiths at work before, but it didn't prepare her for watching Solas. Magic glittered and hummed in the air, and a complex web of interlocking sigils glowed on the ground. Fiona, Wynne, and Orsino each sat in a small circle linked to the greater design, feeding the spell with their power and intention, and in the middle stood Solas, wearing a sleeveless shirt that clung to him like a second skin. Whatever he might claim about being a wandering scholar, he had the lean muscles of an active lifestyle. She definitely didn't mind the view.

Each time he swung the hammer, a shower of sparks arced through the air, and the runes and lines of linked enchantments pulsed with light and power. The blade was already whole again, glowing white-hot and unshaped, but Enalla knew there were still hours yet to go. Her presence wasn't required, and she didn't want to distract them, so after a few moments more, she turned to go back to her room. “Wait,” said a voice, nearly too hoarse to recognize.

Enalla turned back to see Solas beckoning to her with one hand while wiping the sweat from his brow with the other. “I hope I didn't disturb you...”

“No, nothing like that,” he rasped. “Would you hand me that jug of water?” She passed him the large clay jar, the simplest thing she'd ever seen in Imladris, and after taking a long drink, he poured the rest of it over his head and turned to her with water dripping off the tips of his ears and clinging to his eyelashes. Enalla wasn't sure whether to laugh or just stare, transfixed by the droplets sliding over the high arches of his cheekbones and down his throat. “There was something I meant to ask you,” he said, breaking the silence. She nodded, praying he hadn't noticed her preoccupation.

“It is customary to give a new name to a reforged sword, such as this one, though perhaps it would be more usual to wait until after it is finished,” he continued. “But if you already have something in mind, it might help me to give more definition and purpose to the magic.”

“Oh,” she said, still somewhat off balance. It was a huge responsibility, renaming the blade of Andraste, but less, she supposed, than that of wielding it. “I have given it some thought,” she admitted. “Laslassan is the best I could come up with.” She was afraid it was too simple and childish for a weapon of the ages, though it was exactly what she wanted her sword to come to symbolize. But a smile bloomed slowly over Solas’s face like the rising of the sun.

“Hopegiver? That is a fine name,” he said before taking up his hammer again. “I shall keep that in mind as I bind the enchantments to the steel.”

“Thank you again, Solas,” she said, shifting her weight in sudden discomfort. He waved her off, turning back to the forge. Enalla walked away, the image of his smile at the forefront of her thoughts.

*********************

Four days later, there was a knock on her door sometime after midnight. Roheryn raised his head but did not growl, and Enalla pulled open the door, a frown creasing her brow. “Solas?” He blinked at her, his eyes shadowed.

“It is finished,” he said, holding out a long object wrapped in thick fabric and tied with silken cord. She took it from his hands, and he sagged against the doorframe. The sword seemed less important, somehow, and she leaned it against the wall.

“It could have waited until morning,” she said, taking his weight onto her shoulder and leading him over to a chair. In the light from the lamp on her bedside table, he looked nearly gray with exhaustion.

“Is it late? I hadn't realized,” he said, yawning so widely his face was in danger of cracking open.

“It's after midnight. Let me get you some tea or something. You look half-dead,” she said, wrapping a cloak around herself with the intent of going to the kitchen, but Solas shook his head, frowning and wrinkling his nose with displeasure.

“No tea. I detest the stuff,” he said. “Just let me sit here a moment. As soon as my legs will consent to carry me, I will be out of your way.” He leaned his head back, and a moment later, he was clearly asleep. Enalla chuckled to herself and pulled an extra blanket from the end of her bed, draping it over him. Even when she tucked it around his shoulders, he didn't stir. He smelled of soot, and faintly of something else… wind and woodland, she thought. His face was peaceful in sleep, and ageless as sculpture. A strange impulse seized her; she wanted to touch his cheek, to trace her finger over his brow and down his narrow nose. She shook her head to dismiss the thought and retreated back to her bed. The sword could wait until tomorrow. She blew out the lamp and burrowed under the blankets. 

****************************

Solas blinked himself awake into early morning sunlight. He ached all over, but his neck was especially stiff, probably because he'd spent the night in a chair. It took him a moment to piece events together. This was Enalla's room; he'd come to present the finished sword to her but had obviously been in no shape to do so. He had fallen asleep in a chair, so tired he hadn't even walked the Fade in his dreams, and she had covered him with a blanket. It smelled like her, leather, woodsmoke, and a hint of elfroot.

He stood, and the mabari looked up at him from the foot of the bed. Solas held a finger to his lips, and the dog laid its head down with a sigh. Enalla was deeply asleep, judging by the slow rise and fall of her back, and he suppressed the urge to brush her dark hair away from her face. There was no use denying that he was interested in her in more than just a scholarly way; she awakened emotions that he had assumed were long dead. But it was foolish to entertain the thought. Enalla was mortal, and her great destiny was only a part of his larger plan. He couldn't afford to let his heart get involved, no matter how much he might want to. He left for his own quarters before he did something inadvisable.

***********************

Three days later, Enalla held Laslassan up to the window, watching the light of dawn play across the blade. It was a simple design, retaining the characteristic hollow pommel of Elgaravise, with the new name engraved in Tengwar across the crossguard, but the blade was a bit thinner and the hilt was longer. Andraste had wielded her sword in one hand with a shield in another. Laslassan was made for Enalla’s more versatile style, and she could tell it had been made just for her. It felt like an extension of her arm, almost weightless, flowing with the movement of her body, and when she held it with her left hand, the one bearing the Ring, the whole sword lit up green, an intricate inlay of runes and images appearing on the blade. It seemed to tell a story that she couldn't quite make out.

She sighed and slid the sword into the scabbard, as simple and unremarkable as the rest of her gear except for the seven-rayed star tooled into the leather, marking her as one of the Dunedain. Enalla had worn a shroud of secrecy since the moment of her birth, and she was glad, for now, to have it kept in place. The longer their journey remained unmarked, the greater their chance of success. With one last fond look at her room, she went out to the courtyard where all the others were waiting, taking her place between Solas and Abelas with Roheryn at her side.

Wynne, Fiona and Orsino approached, each embracing her in turn, and then Fiona addressed the whole group in a grave voice. “You journey now to answer the threat of Corypheus, but upon each of you, no oaths or binds are laid to go further than you will. The fate of the Ring is entrusted to Enalla alone, but we hope that you will all aid her to the best of your abilities and remain true to your purpose.”

“May the blessings of elves and men, and all other free folk go with you,” Wynne added, and that was it. They departed over the bridge and into the lands beyond, each carrying everything they needed on their backs. At the crest of the ridge, Enalla allowed herself one long look back. She had a horrible feeling that it was the last time she would see the place she had long called home. 

Solas laid a hand on her shoulder as he psssed, and they shared a brief look of understanding. “Not to knock elvish hospitality, but I'll be glad to get somewhere where they serve real beer,” the Iron Bull said from the front of the group. 

“And meat,” Varric agreed. “Never thought I'd be so homesick for a sausage.”

“If you're hoping for a tavern, I’m afraid it will be a journey of some weeks,” Abelas said. “No matter what road we take, there are no towns between here and the mountains.”

“Great waste of space, that is,” Sera said. “Why don't people move out here? Gondor’s crowded enough.”

“This was once the land of the Noldor, long ago,” Solas answered. “The stones are still haunted by their memory. And the winters are harsh, as you will soon discover. Men moved south after the last war, and the elvhen have not returned.”

“The grass and trees do not remember them,” Abelas said. Sera made a rude noise with her mouth, and they continued on, each lost in their own thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for reading! I’m back to posting on a schedule now, do I hope to update this once every two to three weeks. Check out my new Tumblr, kitswritingdesk for updates on this and all my other works as well as ways you can help me out in starting some original stuff. I hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Tress made me do it. Seriously, I would not have begun without her encouragement and expertise. She is the best!


End file.
